Another hidden place / SOHO HOUSE

I figured out you and me in this place, telling untold secrets.
Outside was a veteran with Soviet accent and inside no music, only the tinkling of a chandelier bigger than a crystals fountain.

The whisper of foreigners to the waiters in uniform and me, falling asleep while city's running through monday morning. 
This is not Berlin, but an unhappy colony where to find a new European verginity.


LAST BEACH STANDING / Club Der Visionaere


Have you ever been to a place without clocks?
Where you close your eyes, and you don't know who you are anymore?
Now it's Sunday, or Tuesday, or Saturday.
Instead, I go ahead without looking at the sky because the turbid water slows down the arrival.
I am in East Berlin and the only one offering me something illegal is Italian, go figure, while everyone looks like their are keeping up with the night just with chestnuts beer.  

Outside there's a floating wooden platform lightened by the red kisses of the lamps hanging from the trees, while inside there's a vibrating closet where you can sweat until your muscles keep up. At the end, a Sicilian guy ready to soak up your hunger with a pizza that makes you homesick.  

Maybe it's true because someone has the attitude and the moves of someone who combed his hair about two days ago to get ready for the night, but I wouldn't be able to tell.
Sure thing is that it sounds like the noise of our boat full of mosquitoes and electric air that is the Gamma, but more for the water than for the music, which here commits itself to the insomniac and eager ones.
Who would have ever thought that, in a city that developed its scene thanks to the occupation of empty places, decadent and free? 
I dance, sweat and don't think about it.
Among people who forgot their names, small boats docked without permission and deep house records hanging between the masts I realize we are on the verge, me and anyone around me who is keeping the pace.
As if we were in a stretched up interzone, somewhere else.

A place where you can dream while being awake. Or hanging from the pauses between the records, the only calendar that everyone pays attention to.



It starts slowly and gently, you can feel it as a tunnel of vibes under your shoes. With millimeter precision it grows and climbs on your legs, stomach, mouth. The still air of this airport is warmed by a grand piano, an harp, a cello, a violin, a tuba and a xylophone. Everything is stirred with electronic percussions and machines hidden behind lecterns and music scores. Classical and futuristic in the same time, their music denies time and belongs just to itself. As a secret.



No pictures, no mirrors, here the image is a banned code, as sight is useless.
The only thing speaking is sound. Here, inside this crumbling derelict, encrusted at the end of a street that seems to stretch in between of nothing.
The taxis' bright lights are a shell of fireflies, maybe waiting for the millipede to slowly walk on. Very far, in the milky mouth of that mythical entity of which everyone is speaking, with that name that breaks in your palate like a rattle.

We remain silent, hanging on the edge of the question:

will I get in?

The Cerberus at the door decide who to let in and who not, but nobody knows how they do it.
Once in, the silence gets sucked up together with the colours' frequencies, and the pupils have to dilate over the smoke. Except for the flashing lasers, the console and the director desk on the balcony, there is no other kind of illumination, so it's more than easy to get lost in the gut of corridors around the dancefloor. It's like we are stuck in a artwork by Escher.  

In this post-war hangar techno emerges and makes everyone vibrate at different speeds, as if everyone was following their inner metronome.
After 4am people start to pile up, the dancefloor gets larger like a drop of oil that covers everything, especially what you do not expect.
In the dark rooms between the console I catch a glimpse of bodies winding onto each other, though I'm not really sure.
To trust your eyes is a mistake.
Is “everything allowed”? Probably.
You must jump over your sight to understand this place.



You've gone through kilometers by yourself, trusting someone else's night stories as reliable as the chitchats of a drunken man. You've found pieces of paper speaking in German, and you decided to try, trusting the unknown.
You took the U-Bahn to Alexanderplatz to stumble upon the maps of the tourist information office and get to Ostbahnhof together with your hands sweating for abandonment. Then you found a supermarket muffled in snail slime, and the darkness led you to there, that place full of made up idioms.
Music exploded from the walls, chipped pins and lava-orange cocktails. But it was just Tuesday afternoon, and between the entrance watched by two asleep soldiers you have visited a simulated night.

Inside that there was a tunnel of receipts paid with marks. Traces of who sees dawn with his hands broken by seltz, black trash bags and eyes reddened by someone else's smoke. Then, right between a supporting column, a flying carpet. The immaculate trinity: the DJ – the promoter – the groupie, then a cube of leather laces and bulks, to explain love without women.
And a river of Polaroids taken in hell, in that place that you keep telling me about, and that now I believe it really exists. The powerhouse born from the river of systole and diastole. Friedrichshain and Kreuzberg synthesized in a heartbeat, mechanical contraption, geographic acronym. 
His Majesty Berghain.

Or /bargain/, good deal, as the builders that are destroying Berlin say. Where I met R, who fled from Athene and raped by his uncle while he was loving his man. Or I. from Tel Aviv, who had no one to buy drinks to with his American Express. C, 19 years spent in a globe where there were only his dad's guns and his Los Angeles mansion.
But I came here to know about Ostgut Ton and MDR. I wanna know how, what, and why this remnant of refugees can dictate law in our imagination.

And it seems that the techno galaxy moved over the Wall when the two abandoned districts started to host anyone who had gunpowder.
The luck of this place is that it ended up without owners more or less twenty years ago. And so, in front of the occupation of all those forgotten places, polizei was forced to ask:
-Who owns this building? -No one. In ten years the nobody's  city become the miracle where the museums enter in clubs that entered in former power plants.
A prodigy created by the urge to imagine a world without images, by using only the power of evidence.


About blank puts different styles together and its location is decentered enough to make sure that you don't get there just by chance. Before the zuflucht there are six rusty stairs and the innumerable piercings of the lady at the door.
Then comes the green lobby where to search the suspicious ones and the attractive ones (sometimes they go together), and two twin rooms linked by a blackened corridor.

À la droite they speed up in line, nobody looks at nobody and the rhythm is dark, sharp, it melts shoes to the pavement. Techno thickens the air as in a pressurized capsule.

À la gauche the rhythm is iridescent with future bass, disco and house. People move the speakers for the DJ, gabble in Deutsch and dance while studying each other, always with the beat stuck to their bottoms, dazzling. 

Around the rooms, leather couches, people sleeping on them, and a garden of hanging beds with pit-stop Club Mates.
In an hour I'll open my eyes and go back to the dancefloor.

 ://about blank • Markgrafendamm 24c, Friedrichshain, 10245 Berlino